


Swamp Song

by ravens_ink



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Identity Issues, M/M, Monsters, Only in the first chapter, Other, Siren Jonathan, Suicide Attempt, and then it grew a plot somehow, siren au, this started out as a silly idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-03-29 19:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13933950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravens_ink/pseuds/ravens_ink
Summary: “The thing to decide is what kind of monster to be. The kind who builds towns or the kind who breaks them.” ---Catherynne M. ValenteJonathan Crane never planned to be a siren. He never expected the scales, the magic, nor the urge to lure men to a watery death. He finds he likes it quite well, more than he'd ever liked being human. He could have lived a fine, happy life, if Edward Nygma hadn't waltzed into his world like he owned the place and brought along a host of complications like monster hunters, the Batman, and worst of all: this pesky jump in Crane's heart-rate whenever he sees Nygma.





	1. Chapter 1

**June 1988**

Jon thinks it’s a skin rash at first. 

Admittedly, he doesn’t what kind of rash turns your skin red, orange, and gold, but there are plenty that mimic scales, so it has to be that. It has to. Probably an allergic reaction to the rust on the faucet. If that was the case, he should figure out how to get rid of it. Not like the landlord would do it any time soon. Not like he could afford move if…

He scowls at the mirror, and his exhausted reflection, again. Lifts the scaly patch of skin to the dingy light and prods at it with a pen cap. The edge catches on one of the scales; he has to grit his teeth at the pain.

If it comes back, Jon promises himself. If it comes back, he’ll see someone about it.

It comes back, of course

Pools are still something of a novelty, even after all these years out of Georgia. Jon had made a copy of the custodian’s key to the university pool back in his undergrad, and apparently Gotham U. hasn’t changed the locks since then. He doesn’t even swim, most days, on these midnight excursions. He floats. There’s something bizarrely soothing about the act of floating, the sensation of being entirely weightless and at the mercy of the water’s whims. Jon tilts his head back, and if only for a little while, the world is just the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the rush of the current by his ears. 

That’s when he has good days. Today is a bad day. 

Bad days, Jon does swim. He swims until he aches and his lungs are full of needles and his eyes blur from the chlorine. Then he dives, as deep as he can, and stays there as long as his breath will let him. He thinks about staying past that. Some days, like today, he does. 

The last bits of carbon dioxide leave his mouth in a stream of luminescent bubbles. Jon watches them drift. Waits. Breathes in the water, overwhelmingly chemical, artificial, burning his throat.

And yet, somehow, he keeps breathing. 

This is what sends him kicking for the surface. He claws himself over the side of the pool, rolls over onto the tile, scrambling blindly for glasses, towel, shoes. There is something _wrong_ with his sides, he can feel it. 

It’s as though someone has taken a scalpel and made three incisions on the right and left of his ribcage. No blood, no pain. Just flaps of skin peeling apart and sealing back together in the overheated air. Jon recalls the fish dissection he’d done as part of a biology lab, years and years ago. “Gills,” he says, drawing a finger along one of the flaps. “I have _gills_.” 

It seems like something he should say aloud. As if it might be proof that he hasn’t started hallucinating. The perhaps-not-a-rash is back too—everywhere. Scales cover his arms, legs, torso, back. Even his face. Jon feels a little numb at the realization, and resolutely stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t want to see his reflection right now. 

“God-damnit,” he says. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

 

The changes just keep getting stranger over the next three months. Jon finds his hands and feet growing webbed, fins sprouting along his jaw, his arms, every time he steps out of the shower. It all disappears once the water has evaporated from his skin, but still. Christ Almighty. 

He pins a blanket over the bathroom mirror. He hates his appearance at the best of times. Now he’s just _afraid_. Of what he’s becoming, yes, that, of course. But mostly he’s scared of who else he’ll see in that mirror. He can certainly hear her well enough already. 

“Demon’s spawn,” Grandma Keeny spits. “Vile creature.I should have let the crows have your eyes when I had the chance.” 

The same thing. On and on and on. Wretched hag can’t leave him alone even after she’s dead. Stubbornness always did run in the family. 

_Did she know about this_ , a small voice wonders. It’s been a week and a half since he’s showered properly. He’s reverted to old military habits, only staying under the water long enough to rinse off soap. Was she right about me?

Two more days pass by like this, before he finally snaps. 

He doesn’t remember why he’s in the bathroom this time. He doesn’t know what he’s doing in front of the mirror. He pulls the blanket down, anyway.

She’s there, just like he’d expected her to be, dressed in black and white and the light of hellfire in her eyes. Jon starts talking before she can even open her mouth. 

“You can’t lay a finger on me, is that it?” he snarls. “Is that what this about? You not being able to punish your precious little scapegoat?”

His hand curls around something. A soap dish, maybe. 

“You wanted a monster.”

_Crack._ The glass splinters into black spiderweb, right where her face is.

“So many years. Telling a little boy God doesn’t love him. That he’s irredeemable. That even his own fucking guardian angel would spit at him in disgust.Tell a little boy that long enough, he’ll believe it.”

_Crack._ Jon’s hand is bleeding. He doesn’t care. _Crack._

“I don’t need God! And I don’t need angels! I certainly never needed you. And if I’m going to be a monster, it’s because it’s what I am, and not what you made me.”

_Crack._

The soap dish slips to the floor with a clatter. An odd, raspy sound echoes around the tiny room—he’s panting. Jon swallows, forces himself to take a normal breath, and turns on the faucet. The water stings his wounded hand enough that he can almost feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. 

The scales show up soon enough. It’s like his skin is being covered in autumn leaves. 

Jon smiles. It’s probably just the blood loss making him light-headed, but he feels like he’s floating.


	2. Chapter 2

**April 2017**

“Is that a record player?” Jon asks, pausing at the doorway. 

Davies drops the stack of vinyls he’s carrying, scattering them across his desk. He’s the perfect picture of the startle reflex, Jon notes. Not that he can blame the man. It’s not as though he makes a point to socialize with the other professors, and Davies, despite being on the same floor, is a very recent addition to the music department. He’d learn not to interact with the staff oddball, soon enough. 

“Uh, yeah,” Davies says, then clears his throat. “I’m doing a lecture on sound technologies with my morning class. Thought I’d bring it in early, play a few songs before it starts. Do you mind at all?” 

He fully intends on saying that yes, he would mind very much. What comes out instead is: “Just don’t play the Beatles. I heard enough of them the first time around.” 

Davies gives him a confused smile and adjusts his tie. “That’s fair.” 

Jon disappears quickly into his own classroom, pursued by the opening chords of “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’.” He shakes his head. At least Davies had decent taste. He leaves the door ajar for once and listens as he works. If he taps his toe under his desk, well. It’s no one’s business but his. 

Nancy Sinatra fades into Simon and Garfunkel, which jumps into The Damned for some reason, then settles into The Eagles. He doesn’t mind a single one of them, but his dear neighbor can’t seem to decide on a single album. He’s shaking chalk dust from his gloves—he always wears gloves since the scales appeared, and never leaves his umbrella at home—and thinking about having another word with Davies when “House of the Rising Sun” starts up.

Jon goes still. 

Christ, he can practically smell the French Quarter. He knows it’s a hallucination, scent is a common enough delusion, but the memories come flooding anyway. Sixteen and on the run, four months spent busking for money and picking pockets and getting drunk on the music and color and danger of New Orleans at night. Four months of freedom. It had been like a fever dream. 

The steady rhythm of a guitar drifts from the hallway, and Jon finds himself singing along as the fourth verse begins. 

“ _Oh mother tell your children/Not to do what I have done._ ” When was the last time he’d sung just for the hell of it? Too damn long. He’s out of practice. “ _Spend your lives in sin and misery/In the House of the Rising Sun._ ” 

Footsteps echo in the hallway. It’s still too early for students to be here yet, so he ignores them, keeps singing and swaying to the beat, and copies his notes onto the blackboard. 

“ _Well there is a house in New Orleans/They call the Rising Sun./And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy/And God, I know I’m_ —what the hell is wrong with you, Davies?!” 

Davies is leaning listlessly against one of the student desks, jaw slack, eyes blank. It looks as though he’s been crying. 

“Davies?” Jon marches right up to him and snaps his fingers a few times in the other man’s face. “Are you even listening? Well?” 

No reaction at all. Not even a blink.

“Somethin’ wrong, Doc?” 

A set of familiar blond pigtails catches his eye. Jon nods to her as she steps further in. “Miss Quinzel. I believe Professor Davies here came in high this morning. Nothing to worry about. I’ll be sure to report his misconduct after class.”

He feels more than sees her frown. “Nah. Davies’s as straight edge as you can get. Doesn’t even touch alcohol. Looks more like he got hypnotized, to me. You tried snappin’ him out of it yet?” 

“No, Miss Quinzel, I intended to just let him stand there like a potted plant for the duration of the day.” 

Harleen just arches an eyebrow at the sarcasm, and hands him a heavy, leather-bound book from her bag. “This’ll do the trick. I think.” 

Jon scowls, but takes it from her anyway, rubbing at his throat. There’s been a strange itching sensation at the bottom of his neck ever since he started singing, and it still hasn’t gone away. He raises the book above his head, and lets it drop to the desk with a resounding _thud_. 

Davies jolts like someone had just slapped him. “Wha..? What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me, Professor Davies.” Jon turns his best glare on the music teacher, and is rather gratified to see him visibly quail under its force. “Considering you were the one who decided to barge in.” 

“I don’t...I mean, I can’t remember…” Davies gulps. “I’ll just go. Now. Have a nice day, Dr. Crane.” 

Jon picks up Quinzel’s book as soon as he’s gone. It’s a handsome, if second-hand, translation of Homer’s Odyssey. Must be for one of her literature courses. Unbidden, a quote from it springs to mind. “ _Shout as you will, begging to be untied, / your crew must only twist more line around you / and keep their stroke up, till the singers fade._ ”And just like that, all the little pieces fall into place. The sirens. Of course. It made so much sense now, Jon could barely breathe through it. Handing the book back to Harleen is almost an afterthought. 

“You know, I heard you singing, out in the hallway.” Her voice sounds far away. Probably taking her usual seat. “You’re pretty good. And I heard the music club’s lookin’ for a new faculty advisor.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says automatically. “I’m years out of practice.” 

That earned him another eyebrow raise. “If that’s what you sound like rusty, I’d kill to hear you when you’re not.” 

He’s too old to be blushing, damn it. Jon turns before the color in his face can be seen, picking up the chalk again. There’s another thought nagging at him. If he really was some kind of siren, he’d need to learn to control it eventually. Maybe experiment with its effects. That meant practice. That meant test subjects. And where else would he get willing volunteers, if not on campus, in an organization meant expressly for music? 

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and tries to ignore Harleen’s whoop of victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven't heard it, here's a link to "House of the Rising Sun": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2oKRKZnEoA


	3. Chapter 3

Jon finds he’s taken quite well to being the threat in the dark. 

He likes the waning moon for nights like these. Not enough light for the test subjects to know exactly where they’re going, but more than enough to make them start seeing things in the shadows. Humanity’s natural paranoia, fearing the unknown. And what’s more unknown than walking blind? 

Speaking of…Here they come. Just two this time, but the type is typical. Muscle-bound, not enough brains between them to fill a bowl. Simple ex-childhood bullies that found new outlets. They will do quite nicely. Jon drops down from the rooftop to the fire escape. _Clank_. 

“What the fuck was that?” That one sounds Jersey, born and bred. Sounds like the more nervous of the two. 

Jon flattens himself against the wall.

“A cat, dumbass.” Boston accent. An amused grunt. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little pussycat?” 

“Fuck off! I ain’t scared of anythin’.”

“You will be,” Jon whispers to himself. “Soon enough.” 

The argument continues all the way to the mouth of the alley he’s in. It dissolves into something about directions, how “the Riddler” would be pissed if they were late. Jon waits for a pause in the conversation. Then he takes a deep breath, and starts to sing. 

" _O Death, O Death, O Death,  
Won’t you spare me over til another year?_

_But what is this, that I can’t see?  
With ice cold hands taking hold of me…_

_When God is gone and the Devil takes hold,  
Who will have mercy on your soul?_ "

The notes echo off the brick walls. Rise, fall, minor key deepening beyond any hope of major, the music weaves a web around his two insects. They’re drawn forward, deeper and deeper into the dark, even though they’re shaking in their boots now. Consumed by a rising horror. 

His voice warbles as Jon tries to stifle a chuckle. Wasn’t that the definition of the sublime, though? To be eternally drawn towards, yet repelled by what one fears? What a lovely thought. But it wasn’t nearly that poetic in reality. Siren’s song pulls at one’s heart’s desire to draw victims in; all he’s doing is pulling at their fears instead. So easy, once he’d figured out how. 

Almost there now. Jon hauls himself up onto the railing, balancing easily on his feet. Not that much different from a barn rafter, in the end. He pulls his mask on. The song is winding down to its final notes, the thugs snapping out of its spell.

“Jesus fucking Christ, what the—AAAAHHHHH!”

Jon presses down on the syringe’s plunger, needle buried in the man’s shoulder. After that, it’s just a matter of holding on. He thrashes, of course. Tries to claw Jon off. Actually manages to slam him side first into the wall. Jon grits his teeth and tightens the arm he has around his opponent’s neck. Ten more seconds. Finally, the thug goes limp with fear. Jon leaves him there, sparing half an ear for his pathetic whimpering, and fastens a glare on the other one. 

“Your turn,” he snarls.

The second thug makes an odd noise, a bit like a choke, then takes off running. 

“Why do they always have to run?” Jon mutters. He breaks into a dead sprint, adrenaline singing pleasantly in his bloodstream. He likes the chase, despite whatever he says. It makes him feel like a proper monster.

Jon catches up with the thug down by the docks. They’re on a pier, one of those old wooden ones that creaks and rots under every footstep. His prey looks around wildly. Cornered. Trapped. And apparently unable to swim, if the choice of swinging a right hook at him instead of jumping into the water is any indication. Jon dodges, catches the arm, and buries the needle into a vein. 

This one reacts much faster than the first did. Within seconds, he starts to shiver violently. Half a minute after that, he starts crying. His eyes are wide with fear. Jon smiles at that, and pats his cheek. “You’re doing very well,” he tells him. 

The sea is a quiet roar in his ears. Jon can practically taste the salt and metal of the water on his tongue. For a moment, for _just_ a moment, he’s tempted. He could disappear beneath the waves and take this sorry lump of flesh with him. Something in his bones knows that it would be just as beautiful a sight watching the man drown as it would be to watch him cower. The itch at his throat intensifies. 

There’s a faint beeping noise at Jon’s wrist. His watch. 2:04 a.m. blinks up at him in orange neon. _No time_. He has a class to teach in the morning. And god-forsaken essays to mark.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jon says, and takes the man’s wallet as recompense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The version of "O'Death" Crane is singing is Jen Titus's cover: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWabGQBnzKo


	4. Chapter 4

He goes through the wallet after he gets home. There’s nothing particular of interest in it, really. Fifty dollars in cash, a credit card, driver’s license—and a business card. Heavy card-stock, of a good quality, in a shade of lavender that frankly hurts to look at. The ink isn’t much better. The only other thing Jon’s seen with that kind of shimmery emerald green is on his copy of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_. One side just has a large question mark on it; the other has “Edward Nygma” in elaborate cursive, “the Riddler” in a plainer font right below it. Christ, is that _glitter_? Jon snorts, brushes a thumb over the question mark to check. 

Then he frowns, and does it again.

There’s something embedded in the card. Small, squarish. Maybe metallic. Jon sets the card down on the kitchen counter and rummages about in the drawers. Damn it, he has that first aid kit in here somewhere. He surfaces a minute later with a scalpel and a pair of tweezers. 

It’s easier than he thought it would be, getting it out. A small incision to the right of the thing, a bit of finagling with the tweezers. Jon holds up his prize to the dingy light bulb. 

It’s some kind of computer chip. Tiny green motherboard, elegant silver wiring. Hardly bigger than his fingernail. Probably a tracker. Jon’s no expert in engineering, but he knows enough to realize how difficult creating it would be. 

“Alright, Mister Nymga,” Jon says. “Consider me impressed.” 

It’s a work of art, really. He’s almost sad he has to crush the damn thing. 

 

Jon’s out of the apartment within the hour. 

Just one bag, that’s all he’s ever needed. A few sets of clothes, cash, energy bars, a favorite book or two. He learned a long time ago to travel light, how to go on the run. 

Sometimes, he wonders if he’s ever going to stop running. 

Out the side door, into the crowd. Jon slouches, keeps the brim of his hat low over his face. Tries not to look over his shoulder too much. He’ll call in sick, hide out at the lab for a few days. Wait for the trail to go cold. It’ll be fine. 

Jon snorts again. _Keep telling yourself that_ , he thinks. _Maybe one of these days it’ll turn out to be true._

 

Nygma finds him a day later, in the dead of night. Jon can’t help appreciating the theatricality of it: clock chiming midnight, metallic scrape of the lockpick, muffled thud of a cane. A pause on the basement steps. _Tap tap tap_. It takes him a moment to place the sound—chalk on a hard surface. Jon leans back in the rocking chair and raises his eyebrows beneath the mask. _Hmm…_

The grandfather clock on the second floor is letting out its final note when the Riddler decides to grace him with his presence. He’s better-dressed than Jon had expected, and better-looking. Early forties, at a guess. Curly dark hair, brown skin. The suit is green, the tie purple, and his glasses and cane handle glint gold in the dim laboratory light. 

_He’s wearing Mardi Gras colors_ , Jon thinks suddenly, and bites down hard on a laugh. “You know, it’s rude to keep your guest waiting,” he says. 

“I find I’m worth waiting for.” Nygma takes a cautious step forward. “And I didn’t realize I was being expected.” 

“I’ve been expecting you for the last—”Jon glances at his watch. “Five hours. Did you get lost in traffic, or did it really take this long to figure out where I was?” 

“Oh, please,” Nygma scoffs. “It took me three hours, probably less. You can’t hide from every security camera in Gotham. I simply… wanted the right atmosphere for our first meeting.”

Jon processes this with a nod and a hidden smile. An ego the size of the moon, this one. He finds it amusing instead of annoying. “You’re a showman, then. I presume you’re here about your two friends last night?” 

“They’re not friends.” He sneers and takes another step. Jon can make out the freckles on his skin now. “Employees. Very incompetent employees.”

“They didn’t seem very bright.” 

“They weren’t.” Nymga chuckles. “But to be fair, everyone’s not very bright compared to me.” 

“Really.”

“You said it yourself, didn’t you? Right before I lost the GPS signal. ‘Mr. Nygma, consider me impressed.’ You do know how to flatter a man, Mister…?” 

Ah. So it had been a bug as well. That’s a little embarrassing. “Scarecrow will do for now.” 

Nygma grins. His teeth are very white. “Riddle me this. I can never be stolen from you. I am owned by everyone. Some have more, some have less. What am I?” 

It takes him a while to answer. “Knowledge.”

“Exactly! Knowledge. So many facts I have yet to get a hold of, Mr. Scarecrow. Your name, which I will of course eventually find out. But more importantly, how you managed to lure my men into the alley way in the first place. All my recording has is silence and then the struggle.”

“You realize curiousity killed the cat.”

“But satisfaction brought it back, didn’t it?” 

Jon stretches his legs out and sets the chair rocking. “Would you believe me if I said it was magic?”

“No.”

“What a pity.” 

They regard each in silence. Maybe they’re waiting for the other to break. Or blink. Two minutes in, Jon starts humming. No particular tune to it, a low, wandering melody he makes up on the spot. 

It does exactly jackshit. 

_Merde_. French seems more appropriate, in this instance. More empathetic. There’s a couple restrictions on his voice, Jon has found. It works only on men, and it doesn’t work through electronic equipment. He reexamines Nygma again. There’s another gleam of metal at his ears— _in_ his ears.

“You have hearing aids,” Jon says, understanding at last. 

Nygma, on the other hand, does not seem quite as understanding. In a flash that cane of his is pinned against Jon’s throat, forcing his head back. The chair makes a quiet _thunk_ against the wall. “What the hell are you implying?” 

Jon swallows automatically against the pressure. The metal is still very warm from Nygma’s hand, he notes dazedly. “Only that it explains why my ability doesn’t work on you. Nothing more.” 

“Ability.” He leaves the cane where it is. Jon doesn’t know whether to be glad or pissed off at that. “I could dangle you out one of the windows and you still wouldn’t give me an answer.” 

Jon shrugs, and slips a syringe out from under his sleeve. He may need it soon. “I think I’ve given you enough hints. If you’re as smart as you say you are, I imagine you’d enjoy the challenge,” he says. “And it would be so disappointing if you had to resort to physical threats.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Because then I’d have to bite your nose off, and it’d be a shame to ruin a pretty face like yours.” 

Nymga snorts. “You don’t have the guts.” 

“Try me.” 

Jon presses the needle lightly to the wrist holding the cane. Nygma goes very, very still. “What is that?” he asks. 

“This is what made your former employees scream so much, Mr. Nygma. Would you like to know how much terror a man can experience until his heart gives out? I would.” 

Nygma keeps one eye on the syringe, the other on Jon’s eyes. “I could still beat you to death before it hits.” 

“And that would depend entirely on which of us is faster. You’re a planner, Mr. Nygma, I can tell that already. You wouldn’t leave something like this to chance.” 

The scowl on his face darkens into something stormy. Anger looks fetching on him. “No, I wouldn’t. It appears we’re at an impasse.” 

Neither of them particularly wants to lower their weapon of choice, but one of them has to. Jon quite doubts Nygma has the self-control, so he slowly raises the syringe away from his wrist. A second later, the weight of the cane lifts from his neck. Jon tries not to look too closely at why he’s so dismayed by that. 

“Well then,” Nygma says. Suddenly there’s a burst of movement, a blur of green and purple, and Jon’s mask is sliding over his head, dangling from the other man’s grasp. “Until next time, Scarecrow.” 

Jon gapes at him, but by the time he’s found his voice again, Nygma’s gone. He sighs. “Until next time, Mr. Nygma.”


	5. Chapter 5

“We’ve gotta stop meetin’ like this,” Harleen says. 

Jon looks up from where he’s picking up several shards of glass---it used to be an ugly-looking vase in the corner of his classroom, before he lost his temper. He needs to get out of the habit of breaking things. “Miss Quinzel,” he says, then takes in her cap and gown. “Please tell me I didn’t miss your graduation ceremony.” 

“You did.” She gives him a sympathetic smile. “Looks like you probably had a good reason, though.” 

He glances down at the shard of glass in his hand, tucks it absent-mindedly into a trouser pocket, threads his fingers into his hair. “Not good enough. I’m...I’m on probation after the incident with the gun during class. Which is bureaucratic bullshit for ‘you’re fired’. The board called me in for a disciplinary hearing this morning. Damn it, I should have been there, Harleen.” 

“It’s okay.”

He scratches at the tattoo on the back of his neck, and looks anywhere but at her. 

“ _Really_. It’s fine, I promise. Did it more for my mom's sake than anythin'.” Her face lights up after a moment. “You wanna know how you can make it up to me?”

“Dare I ask?” 

“Ice cream. Come and get ice cream with me.”

“Why?”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Why not? I need to celebrate, you need something to cheer you up. Win-win.” 

“I meant, why me?”

“Because you’re my _friend_ ,” Harleen says, as if that doesn’t confuse him more than this whole situation already does. “Because I feel like laughin’ today, and you’re funny, and because you don’t tune out when I start talkin’ your ear off about stuff. And because you really need some sun. I like you and all, Doc, but you’re a pair of fangs away from bein' Bela Lugosi’s stunt double right now. Come on.” 

Which is roughly how Jon finds himself strolling down a Gotham side street, tweed coat thrown over his shoulder and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, eating a mint chocolate chip cone and trying not to get brain freeze. 

“Never saw you as a mint fan,” Harleen says, taking a bite of her strawberry ice cream. “Or having tattoos.”

Jon looks down fondly at the swirling ink covering his forearms; it’s all alchemical notation and glowing beakers, a caduceus down the middle of it all. “That’s intentional. The rumor mill on campus runs well enough on its own. I didn’t particularly feel like giving it more ammunition.” 

“I didn’t realize likin’ mint ice cream was such a serious issue.” 

“Oh, it’s the height of scandal these days, child, haven’t you heard?” He takes another bite, frowns at how his teeth go numb. “In all seriousness, there’d probably be some stupidity about how I was in prison and that’s how I got these.”

“Were you?”

“In prison? No. Well, nothing I was ever caught for, at least.” 

Harleen laughs. “What, did you murder someone?”

 _Yes_. “Petty theft, I’m afraid. And busking in places I wasn’t allowed to.” 

“Damn. And here I was thinkin’ I’d got my big break. _My Year With A Murderer_. Bet you that’d get me on the bestseller list.” Harleen ate the last of her cone thoughtfully. “Crap like that, though. The elitism and the politics. That’s why I want out of academia.” 

“I think elitism is a danger of the field,” Jon says. “But I do recall that you wanted to earn your doctorate. Any specific plans?” 

“Arkham.” The response is immediate. “I want to work at Arkham. You know I like abnormal psychology. I think I’d do good there.” 

“That you would,” Jon says. “I’d write you a letter of recommendation, but I don’t know what my word’s really worth anymore.” 

They both laugh, and somehow it doesn’t feel forced. 

“I’ll talk to Jeremiah,” Jon says finally. “See what I can do. We were colleagues at one point.” Granted, colleagues that hadn’t liked each other very much. But it’s worth a shot. They’d always agreed on intern candidates, at least...

There are arms around him. A nose smushed against his shoulder. “Thank you,” Harleen says, and after a few seconds pulls away from the hug. 

Jon stays frozen in place. He blinks, once, twice. 

“You okay, Doc?”

He starts shaking his head, then himself, then nods and settles into some semblance of normalcy. “I’m fine.”

Jon gets both eyebrows raised at him for that. And a giggle.

“Listen,” he says. “Quit laughing at your dowdy old professor. It’s your graduation, child. You’ve got to have more plans than just ice cream.” 

“I do!” Harleen grins again. He’d call it sunny, if the sun wasn’t so much rarer in this city than her smiles. “I was gonna drag a friend to the arcade a couple blocks down.” 

“I’m sure you two will have a lovely time.” Jon glaces away into a shop window. “You ought to be going soon, if—ow! Why did you punch me?” 

“Because you’re bein’ a dumbass,” she says. “You’re goin’ to the arcade with me. And if you call yourself dowdy one more time, I’ll punch you a lot harder.”

“Very well then,” he says, glancing back at the window again and studying the street. Two middle-aged women in sundresses by the newsstand, shopkeeper with a broom, one very overheated old dog, a stocky man with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Jon’s seen that last person two blocks ago, at the same distance, smoking that same cigarette. His throat starts to itch. 

“..pop by my house to get quarters, if you’re okay with stoppin’ by,” Harley’s saying. 

“It might be better if we just meet up there,” Jon says. He’s trying for gentle, not sure how well he pulls it off. “It could save a bit of time.” 

“And it gives you a chance to run away.” 

They round a corner. Jon doesn’t even hesitate, just sweeps the wide-brimmed hat from his head and places it on hers, pulling it down over her eyes. “And now I can’t, not if I want my hat back. Go on. I’ll meet you there. You have my word.” 

“I better,” she says. “See you later then, Doc!” 

He returns to studying the reflections again, after they both wave goodbye. The man in the baseball cap makes no motion to follow her. Small miracles, Jon supposes. He bares his teeth in a grimace, tosses his jacket onto a restaurant’s patio table as he passes, and keeps walking. 

It’s been a while since he’s had to lose a tail. This will be _fun_.


End file.
